


Carousel of May (Drabble-a-Day, May 2020)

by realjane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Infidelity, Unbreakable Vow (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 18,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23957782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realjane/pseuds/realjane
Summary: A collection of Dramione drabbles and one-shots written every day in May!
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 81
Kudos: 61





	1. Day 1 - Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 - Prompt: “Sacrifice, that’s what we do for the people we love.”   
> Adjective: Cruel  
> Noun: Band  
> Verb: Watch
> 
> Draco sees her for the first time since he went back to his wife and seriously contemplates his choices - what would happen if he broke his unbreakable vow?
> 
> I'm going to *attempt* to do one small drabble or one-shot a day in May! I have a random list of prompts and every day I'll roll to see what my prompt is, followed by a random adjective, noun, and verb. Each of these will inform my daily piece. Rated M because I have a feeling some will be angsty/smutty down the road!

“Weren’t you seeing her?”

The question jarred him out of his drunken stupor. Draco dragged his eyes away from her swaying hips and fixed his gaze on the bartender. Shouldn’t have let himself watch her. He shrugged. “Doomed from the start.”

“So… she’s frigid, then.” 

“Hardly,” Draco mumbled.

“She’s a lesbian.”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“You’re a terrible lay.”

“While that is the most realistic answer that you’ve proposed thus far, I’m assured that I am a  _ fantastic  _ lay.” But he looked down into the golden pool of whiskey at the bottom of his glass. The band of gold around his finger burned. He yelped and twisted it off his hand. 

“Christ, mate… someone’s got you by the balls, and it’s not that chick.” He nodded towards the woman on the dance floor, who Draco was trying desperately to forget. He dropped his wedding ring into his glass and it fizzled. Astoria would instantly know that he had taken it off and he would be very… very sorry to have done so. So he would tell her. The charm in the band didn’t allow him to lie about such matters. 

And he couldn’t lie to  _ himself _ . 

Not when  _ she _ was dancing ten yards away, reminding him that he had done this only once before… taken off his ring. For a six month span, burying the blood vow he had taken with a wife he didn’t love in a pot of marigolds. For  _ her. _ The marigolds died when he dug his ring back out again--when she insisted that he needed to go back to his wife. Or he would eventually die. Every day that he defied his unbreakable vow, he had been in agony, and yet it was nothing like  _ this _ . Seeing her again. Needing her. His skin was too hot, suddenly and he tugged at his collar.

She didn’t see him. Or if she did, she didn’t show it. It was cruel of her. Didn’t he deserve it? Draco pushed back from the bar and dropped a handful of galleons for the bartender. Tom tipped his hat in thanks. Draco slid along the length of the bar, tugging on his coat. 

_ Don’t look at her. Get out. Get out. _

“Hey!” a little voice called, just as he burst out into the cold night air. He froze on the spot. 

“Go back inside, Hermione.” He shivered as he spoke her name.

“You forgot this.” She skirted around him and extended her hand, but he refused to look at her. She grabbed his wrist and forced his fingers open. His wedding ring. 

“I can’t.” He turned away and tossed it into the snowbank outside.

“You have to take it!” She dove for the ring. She dug it out of the snow and held her hand outstretched. Only then did he allow himself to look at her. Her eyes were brimming with desperate tears. In her desperation, her hair hung in wild spirals. She stepped closer and he took a step back.

“Why?” he whispered, shaking his head. 

_ Why are you doing this? _ He thought. _ Why do you want me to take it? Don’t you see how it’s killing me? _

“You have to, Draco. You have to. You have to.  _ Please. _ ” She practically sobbed. “For me.”

“And if I do?” he asked. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his wool coat. 

“You’ll be alive. At least.” 

Draco pressed his eyes shut. “But I’m choking.”

“I know.”

“My life is not my own.” Until Astoria died, of course, but she was the picture of health and no amount of regret could make him see how the death of his wife could solve a puzzle of blood magic left behind in the marriage contract drawn up by his parents. Even if she died... Even if she let him go, the unbreakable vow would not. There was no future in which the woman in front of him could be anything but an acquaintance from his youth.

“You’re lost to me either way,” she cried. “But I can’t bear it if you’re dead.” She was so small, curling into herself and shivering with her hand outstretched. Offering him the one thing that would always stand between them. 

There were two options:

Take the ring: stay alive, trapped and miserable.

Leave the ring: die, eventually. Be free of obligation, of his marriage. Of the manor house that was filled with the ghosts of agonizing memories. Be able to take a walk without asking his wife’s permission first. Love someone. Love  _ her _ . And die very young, as the vow ate away at him, draining his life from him at every moment.

“Put it in my pocket,” he said softly, gesturing to his coat. Hermione stepped into his personal space and tucked her fingers into his pocket, depositing the silver ring. He caught her elbow. “Kiss me.” She shook her head slowly. His fingers fell from around her elbow. “Why not?” he scoffed. “You beg me to take back my wedding ring, you beg me to stay alive, for you--but you won’t give me one last  _ shred  _ of hope?”

“That isn’t fair.” She glared at him.

“It’s called Sacrifice, Hermione.” Draco loomed over her, curving his shoulders to protect her from the blast of wind that whipped up through the cobbled lane. “It’s what we do for people we love.”

“I love you?” Her face fell in the weight of the truth.

“I know you do.”


	2. Day 2 - Teach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Hermione's first day as the new Potions professor... she's nervous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 - Prompt: “Are you ready?”  
> Adjective: familiar  
> Noun: alarm  
> Verb: teach

Her key turned in the lock. The mechanism stuck a bit from the humidity, but she shouldered the door open and sighed.

Her classroom. The old potions room.  _ Snape’s _ old room. The last time she’d been in here was eighth year. The benches had been cleared away to make way for new desks, which afforded each student their own stand. They were pushed against the walls; she trailed her fingers across the fresh stain as she walked to the front of the classroom. She had always loathed group work, and her potions class wouldn’t rely on fumbling pairs. Rather, she’d give students one-on-one attention and develop them each in their turn. If all went according to plan.

She was nervous. It was a familiar feeling. Anticipation, mingled with nerves.  _ First year professor _ , and everything.

A knock sounded on the door frame and she whirled around. Draco leaned against the mahogany door, crossing his arms.

“Sorry to alarm you,” he said with a grin.

“I was just deciding how I want to arrange the desks.” She set her bag on the head table and perched on the edge.

“Just put them in rows and have done with it!”

“It’s not conducive to discussion,” she huffed. “The motivated students sit in the front, the  _ Slytherins  _ sit in the back--”

“Excuse me, I was top of my class!” He pushed off the door and strode towards the front of the room. “Even from the last row.”

“ _ Our class,  _ and we both know who got an O in potions eighth year.” 

Draco sat beside her on the edge of her desk. “I’m bad under pressure.”

“No you’re not.” She elbowed him in the side. He braced his arm behind her and kissed her cheek.

“Fine. I’m fantastic under pressure but not that great at potions. S’why you’re teaching it and I’m not.”

She looked at him sideways. “No, you’re good at Potions. You just don’t want to teach it.”

“Semantics.” He considered her. “Are you ready?”

Hermione let out a long, low breath. “No.”

“Good. When you think you’re ready, they eat you alive.”


	3. Day 3 - Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of idiocy on Draco's part lands Hermione in the hospital wing. His punishment? One week, one hour a day. Sitting beside her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 - Prompt: Flying glass  
> Adjective: Feeble  
> Noun: Bait  
> Verb: Draw

Draco spread his scroll out on the floor and sighed. “Stupid idiot, Malfoy,” he grumbled, scrubbing his cheek in frustration. “Such a bloody useless--”

“Who’s there?”

He scrambled to his feet and jumped as far away from the bed as he could without tangling himself in the curtain partition. She was squinting up at him. She frowned. “Malfoy?”

“No, it’s Nicholas Flamel.”

“Get out.”

“Wish I could.” He toed the ground. “I’m being punished because you exploded your potion, so.”

Hermione brushed her hair off her forehead and winced as her fingers passed over her still healing cuts. “I’m serious, Malfoy. Leave.”

“Believe me--nothing would make me happier, but I can’t. Not for… forty-three minutes.”

“Why not? Where’s Madam Pomfrey?”

Draco stuck his head out of the curtain. The hospital wing was completely dark and the matron was nowhere to be found. “Gone,” he sighed. “She comes back when my hour is up.” He looked up at the clock above her bed. “So… forty-two minutes from now, you’ll be rid of me. Until then, I have a potions essay to write, so go back to sleep.”

She frowned. “Am I meant to be punished as well?”

“ _ You?  _ Punished for anything? Not bloody likely.”

“How do I know you won’t do anything to me?”

He scoffed. “Please. As if I’d stoop any lower. Now. Shut it.”

He sat on the floor once again and sulked. This was day five of seven of his penance for ‘endangering a classmate.’ He was to sit beside her bed for an hour, every night for a week. 

It wasn’t like  _ he  _ threw the wrong ingredient  _ into her cauldron,  _ for Merlin’s sake. He had been simply testing her focus. Could she put her ingredients into the cauldron in the proper order if he repeatedly tossed paper into her hood? Obviously not, which is why she was here. 

_ Serves her right,  _ he thought… 

She  _ had  _ mixed up the order of ingredients after all and… the result was a flash explosion. Her beakers had exploded too, in a flurry of flying glass. He couldn’t scrub the image out of his mind… her lying unconscious, covered in a spatter of viscous, compromised  _ draught of the living death _ , and bleeding so much that Snape had scooped her up and sprinted to the hospital wing himself.

Snape had personally sought him out in the dungeons later that evening, and dragged him to the hospital wing by his collar. It had cost him fifty house points, too. And a failed grade on his own draught, even though he had brewed it perfectly. For  _ Snape _ of all people to take points from his own house… Draco was in it. Deep.

Draco huffed. Stupid girl. 

His eyes flicked up to her dimly lit form. She remained awake and her brow was furrowed. In the large hospital bed she looked feeble. Her face still bore little reddened cuts, though they had knitted themselves together somewhat since the incident. Her hair was a fright, on the other hand--sticking out in all directions, splayed across her pillow, and competing with her gentle breaths as several locks fell over her forehead. It looked uncomfortable… How does she contest with that mane every day? He was entertained by the idea that the disarray might cause her to dream of being strangled by vines.

The rest of the hour passed as Draco contemplated all the flora and fauna Granger’s hair could turn into in a nightmare. He did  _ not _ get any work done on his essay--Snape had assigned him to write two yards on “Why Magical Malfeasance Will End the Malfoy Bloodline.” If it was to Snape’s liking, he wouldn’t tell Draco’s parents what had happened, and Draco would be allowed to end his detention early. If the essay wasn’t up to snuff, he would send Draco’s essay by express post with an attached photograph of Hermione Granger, unconscious, to Lucius Malfoy… and then Draco would be cut from the Slytherin Quidditch team. And probably fail Potions, too, because how could he show his face in that classroom again?

He had spent the first two nights contemplating why Snape would punish him so fiercely for merely throwing Granger off her game, but by the fourth night of her being unconscious, he was starting to understand.

Madam Pomfrey was prompt, arriving precisely as the clock marked an hour passed. She nodded to the Slytherin; Draco rolled up his scroll and stood. “It’s been a gas, Granger. See you tomorrow.” 

Granger glared at him. “I don’t understand why he has to be here,” she spat at Madam Pomfrey.

“Oh, I think he could tell you that!” The matron smiled smugly at Draco, who rolled his eyes.

“You’re magnetic, what can I say--ow!” Madam Pomfrey bopped him on the back of the head. “Because you could’ve died!” he exclaimed. He rubbed the back of his head. “Happy? You could’ve died because I distracted you, either by bleeding out, or by just... never waking up again. Because of me.”

Hermione pushed her hair off her face. She accepted that answer, however confused she was by it. “The least you could do is bring me my schoolwork tomorrow.”

“No, dear. You’re mine until Sunday,” the matron said. “No work until then.”

“Ugh!” Hermione threw up her hands. “Am I supposed to  _ talk to him?” _

“Would it hurt?”

“Yes!” the two answered in unison.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. “Off you go,” she said, pushing Draco towards the door of the hospital wing. “As for you, Miss Granger, try to get some sleep. You’ve still got some healing to do, though I’m glad to see the effects of the draught have mostly worn off.”

“Do I seriously have to put up with Draco Malfoy for two more nights?”

“Yes. Professor Snape was very clear.” Madam Pomfrey turned down her lights. “You may find his presence tolerable after all.”

“Not bloody likely,” Hermione grumbled.


	4. Day 4 - Held

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fallen Death Eater. The enemy he clings to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I’ve got you.”  
> Adjective: cold  
> Noun: waves  
> Verb: bear

She cradled his head. It was a matter of time, before.. he wasn’t conscious, anymore. His skin was clammy and cold. But he was still breathing, and the breaths were steady, if shallow. 

Why him? And why, at the end of it all, was fear still radiating off him in waves? Why did he cling to her? He  _ hated _ her. He insisted on it. It defined him. But his fingers curled around her wrist for purchase, anyway.

"I've got you," she whispered. There was only so much that Hermione could bear, but… she could hold him.

Death Eater or no, he was once just a scared little boy. She knew him then. That little boy inside him deserved comfort. Even as he died.


	5. Day 5 - Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco accidentally releases a boggart in the castle and Hermione demands an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 - Prompt: “In my defense, the moon was full and I was left unsupervised.”   
> Adjective: Thoughtless  
> Noun: Cord  
> Verb: Infect

“In my defense,” he panted, bracing his hands on his knees to catch his breath, “the moon was full… and I was left unsupervised.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re not a werewolf.”

“No, but…” he gestured at the sky. “My moods are often tidal.”

“Aha. So, let me understand you.” Hermione pursed her lips and leaned against the cupboard door, which was currently shaking and vibrating. “You managed to let a boggart loose in the castle… because the moon is full.”

“It turned on me!” 

“How am I supposed to convince thirty students to return to your Dark Arts class after you let the thing that  _ mimics their fears _ escape?”

“Technically I didn’t let it escape--”

“I swear to Dumbledore’s ghost, Malfoy--”

“I didn’t! It turned on me and I--”

“And what, you got scared?”

“Listen, I’ll have you know that children aren’t the only ones with fears!”

“What’d you seen then? Big Spider?”

“No--”

“Huge clown? Any amount of responsibility? A snake with a top hat?”

“You! It looked… like, uh.” He scratched his head and looked away. “You.”

Hermione blinked. “Come again?”

Draco sighed and leaned against the wall, grabbing the stones for purchase. “Miss Weasley was frightened of her boggart, so I stepped in with  _ riddikulus _ \--except that when I stood in front of the girl… it turned into you. I sort of… froze up. You--it, the boggart I mean--were looking at me in just such a way.” He gestured to her now, face riddled with incredulity and arms crossed in utter annoyance. Her eyebrows raised and he blushed. 

“Anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to say the banishing spell because I… have no desire to make you ridiculous. I couldn’t bring myself to laugh at your expense. Even if you’re a boggart. So.” Draco pushed off the wall. “I ushered the children outside the door and the boggart followed.”

Hermione nodded once and crossed to the doorway of his classroom, which she had slammed not five minutes earlier after containing the boggart for him. “Wait! I’m sorry, Hermion--Headmistress,” Draco said quickly. She paused at the door.

“You have a lot of nerve,” she murmured. “After all these years, after I sat for your trial, offered you a job… you still just… make a mockery of me.”

“I’m not…  _ mocking you--” _

She whirled on him. “You’re thoughtless. You don’t care how your words hurt--”

“I just said that I don’t get enjoyment from laughing at you!” He carded his hand through his hair. “I mean that. I’ll prove it.” Draco strode for the cupboard that Hermione had wrangled the boggart back into, and looked to her for permission.

“Fine. You have five minutes.”

“Stand over there so it doesn’t see you. If you please.” He pointed to the far side of the room. 

Her heels rang against the stones; she did as he asked. Draco unwound the cord on the cupboard handles and drew his wand. He released the doors. 

As the boggart emerged and honed in on its liberator, it shifted into a facsimile of Hermione--in full Headmistress regalia, but tinged by the way Draco viewed her… hair a bit more wild, eyes narrowed… deeply disapproving look on her face. But it advanced on him slowly and Draco froze up. He looked at the copy of her with such a pang of regret…

“There you have it.” His voice wavered.

“Do it,” she said quietly. Draco shook his head.

“I can’t.”

She brandished her wand. “ _ Riddikulus!” _ Immediately, the boggart shifted to how she looked as a first year student--big teeth, explosive curls, robes swallowing her up. But still, Draco didn’t laugh. He looked away. He sleeved his wand and shook his head, turning his back on the boggart.

Hermione flicked her wand at the boggart, which wheezed and curled back into the cupboard. She secured the doors with the cord and turned back to him. “Did you know that the boggart would take my form when it saw you in class?”

He shook his head. “An unfortunate occurrence which the students are sure to hold over my head forever.”

“I’m your  _ greatest fear _ .” She sounded puzzled and… sad. “Why?”

His shoulders curved in as he sighed. “I don’t know. I would’ve put money on my father coming out of that cupboard. Imagine my mortification when it was  _ you _ .”

“Hatred runs deep, I guess--”

“Stop. Please.” Draco put his hands on his hips and his head bent in resignation. “I don’t hate you. I feel… much differently. Hence my confusion, and frankly  _ mortification _ that this has come to pass.”

“Can you explain it to me, then?” She asked. 

He leveled his gaze with hers. “You’ll hear me out fully?”

She looked unbearably sad, but she nodded. “It’s my job to understand my professors, and I think it’s within your rights to explain yourself--”

“Just… pretend you’re not Headmistress. I don’t think you can hear me through that perspective--and not because you’re not a fair and just headmistress, but because that’s not why I…  _ this _ happened.”

Hermione sat at one of the desks and nodded. “Very well.”

He took his cue from her and sat at the next desk over. His limbs were too long now, and he had to stretch his legs out to sit comfortably, but it was good neutral territory. Draco cleared his throat.

“Since my trial, things have been very… different. For me.” He rubbed his cheek. “My friends from that time have all disappeared into their grown-up lives, but still--none of them came to support me. But Potter did. And you did. Merlin knows why.”

“I believed you were innocent.”

“I know  _ that,”  _ he chuckled, despiste himself. “But you could’ve written testimony or sent an emissary on your behalf.”

“I didn’t feel like I could best represent myself unless I appeared in person.”

“And see,  _ that-- _ that very thing has been occupying my mind for some time.” Draco glanced at her. “When you decide that something is worthwhile, you fight for it. Merlin knows why I deserved that distinction.”

Hermione reddened. “And that made you afraid of me?” Gone was her haughty Headmistress air… instead, she just looked distraught. 

“Terrified. Hermione, you have  _ infected _ me.” He sat up straighter. “I have a life and a purpose because you deigned to give it to me.”

“I didn’t do it out of pity.” She pulled her hair over one shoulder and tugged at a lock of it… almost nervously.

“I know. You don’t pity people. You give people chances.”

“You deserve to have a life you can be proud of.”

“It is utterly terrifying,” he said, “to have Hermione Granger expect things of you--expect you to be better and do better. I think about it every single day. I wake up worried that my students didn’t understand the lessons well enough. I have Potter go over my lesson plans before I start a new unit. Because I am terrified of proving you wrong.”

Hermione looked at him sideways, frowning. “You’ve already proven me right.”

Draco blanched. “I have?”

She sighed, closing her eyes. “You took the position when I offered it to you. If you weren’t worthy of it, you wouldn’t have accepted it.”

“I might have…”

“No, the Malfoy I knew when we were students would’ve thought teaching beneath him.” She smiled then. “Harry is impressed with you, though.”

Draco stood abruptly, running his hands over his face. “Gods!”

“What?” She touched his elbow. Draco stilled and looked down at her little hand on his arm. He slid his arm out of her grasp until her fingers met his.

“You have no idea what you’ve given me.” His eyes were shining. He squeezed her hand and released it. Slowly, Draco made for the classroom door.

“Draco, wait.” Hermione stood.

He looked back at her.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” she said, and it pained her to say it. “That’s not how I want you to think of me.”

“It’s not the  _ whole  _ of the emotion,” he said, smiling sadly.

Hermione moved to him and touched his shoulder, smoothing the wool at his lapel. “What can I do?”

His hands raised to cup her cheeks of their own volition and he shook his head. “I just… need to go think. For a while.”

“I could help.” 

“Not tonight,” he said. 

Hermione’s gaze flicked to his lips. She kissed him, just a soft press to feel how his lips felt with hers. When she pulled away, his eyes were shut in a stupor of surprise and… some other emotion. “Just… know that I have wanted to do that for a long time,” she whispered. “In case you wanted something else to dwell on.”

He peered at her in skepticism. “Is this the Headmistress talking, now?”

She laughed. “Every version of Hermione Granger is in agreement.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Still afraid of me.”

“Oh, it’s increased tenfold now,” he said. “But it’s a good scared. I think.”


	6. Day 6 - Nerves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione's receiving a commendation for her work with the Ministry, but she's so nervous she might flee. Lucky for her, she has an ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 - Prompt: “Always have an escape plan.”  
> Adjective: Selfish  
> Noun: Alarm  
> Verb: Compete

Hermione wanted to run out of the ballroom the moment she entered. It was selfish, but she didn’t want to be the center of attention, she wanted Harry to shove his commendation up his arse and leave her to her work. Pressure from the Minister had forced his hand--if it weren’t for the panic attack she had in his office, this entire gala would’ve been in  _ her _ honor. At least she only had to stay until the ceremony.

“I don’t mean to alarm you, but you’re hyperventilating,” a low voice said, yanking her onto the dark balcony by her elbow. Her skirts swished around her feet as a strong hand wound around her waist to steady her, setting her on a stone bench and pushing a tumbler into her grasp.

“What is it?” she squeaked, staring at the golden liquid in the glass.

“Stress relief.”

She downed the contents of the glass in one go; the liquor burned in her throat and she coughed. Her companion patted her on the back until her breaths evened out. “Thanks.”

“As much pleasure as I take from your discomfort, even I have a heart.” Malfoy took the empty glass from her and perched on the arm of the bench. She looked up at him with wide eyes. “Alright, Granger?” He smirked at her.

“Why does Harry insist on embarrassing me like this?” Hermione closed her eyes.

“Because like me, he enjoys watching you unravel.” He chuckled as a pained groan escape her. “Come  _ on _ , woman. At least dance and get your mind off of it.”

“I’m a terrible dancer.”

“Untrue.” 

“I am. Two left feet and everything.” 

“I know that to be categorically false.” He held out his hand. “Come on. I won’t ask again. Prove me wrong.”

She glared at him. “Is everything a competition with you?”

“With  _ you _ ?” He grinned.

Hermione took his hand without argument, but she narrowed her eyes as he drew her onto the dance floor with a flourish, spinning her into him and sending his own cloak whirling in a spray of black velvet. People  _ were _ looking at her now, but it wasn’t so bad with this confidant wizard to overshadow her. He was so much taller than her that she had to stretch to reach his shoulder, but his long arms ably held her up--one at her back, and the other cradling her hand. Draco was an able enough dancer for them both. “Thank you for rescuing me,” Hermione whispered.

“Always have an escape plan, Granger.” Draco’s hand warmed her back.

“Is that where I went wrong tonight?”

“No, you made a mistake of being too good at your job, which warranted the attention of the Minister of Magic, who happens to be extremely fond of extravagant galas that drain Ministry coffers.” He shrugged. “Don’t worry. After your first gala, the rest of them are easy.”

“Do you really think I’m good at my job?”

Draco stopped dead in his tracks. He cradled her hands in his. “Why do you suddenly demand my approval?”

She shrugged. “You don’t… sugarcoat things. For me. You tell me the truth. I know you’ll tell me if I don’t deserve to be here--”

“Stop. Now that, I will not allow.” He signaled to a waiter and grabbed them each a glass of champagne. He clinked his glass against hers. “You don’t need me to tell you that you’re worthy.”

“I know! I just…” She sighed. “I’m so bloody nervous.”

“Good.” He straightened, sipping his champagne. “It looks good on you.”

“I hate you,” she blushed.

“I know.” He smiled.

By the time the ceremony began, Hermione’s nerves were somewhat settled. Draco stood towards the back of the room but he smiled brightly at her as she collected her commendation from the Minister. She said…  _ something  _ to the room of wizards and witches that she respected, and then blacked out for a moment, and came to with Draco offering her a hand off the stage.

“You didn’t have to  _ thank  _ me,” he murmured, following her towards the bar.

“Why wouldn’t I thank my husband?” she scoffed. “Who else did I thank? Because I can’t remember anything I said. I sort of blacked out.”

Draco just laughed heartily.


	7. Day 7 - Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way to save her from the Dark Lord was to lose her forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt - “People say that I am heartless.”  
> Adjective: Nebulous  
> Noun: Control  
> Verb: Forsake

He spat blood into the dirt. “And people say that I’m heartless.” He winced. His lungs tried to expand but pain shot through his side. Broken ribs. Merlin knows what else… he had fallen two stories. He was lucky to be conscious. 

She flicked her wand and he doubled over again. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“Sure you did!” He coughed, slouching back against the wall. “Isn’t this what you asked for, Granger? Control?”

Her jaw was set. She nodded for him to sit on the ground. “You’re losing too much blood.”

“Good.” His head swam with nebulous ideas. Run. Fight. 

Die.

No matter what he did, he’d never be able to unsee the pain on her face, how it contorted with the realization of his betrayal… the decision to subdue him, at the cost to herself. His chest ached.

_A mistake. You’ve ruined everything. She built you and you… you broke her. Now look at you: bleeding out and on the opposite end of her wand._

“So like a Gryffindor to end a fight.” He slid down the wall and gasped; the collision with the hard stone rattled his broken ribs. So like a Slytherin to go out like a coward. He pressed his eyes shut. No, not like a Slytherin. A true Slytherin would’ve figured out a way. There were other choices… but he didn’t choose them. Or, rather, he let the Dark Lord choose for him.

“I should have known better,” she said evenly. “That when you promised me--”

“Hermione--”

“ _Promised!”_ she spat, kneeling before him. “That you didn’t mean it. And I was so foolish, I believed every word you said. Silver-tongued bastard.”

His head snapped up. His mouth gaped as an unbidden keen tore from his throat. “You have no idea.” Draco pressed his hand to his side and winced. “Your precious golden boy is safe, so what does it matter what I did?” He laughed dourly. “I didn’t forsake you. I saved you. One day you’ll see that. Just… leave me here to die.”

She rolled her eyes, fishing a vial out of her bag. She forced it into his hands. “Drink this.”

“What’s it matter? I’m a goner--”

“Just. Drink it.” Hermione stood and renewed her stance, training her wand on him. It was not a request. It was an order. Draco uncorked the lid and sipped, but the taste was bitter and… milky. He groaned. _Skele-gro._ He tossed the vial at her feet.

“Fuck you,” he said. “You can’t just leave me, you have to be the gods-be-damned savior every time.”

Hermione shook her head. “Better than a martyr for a false god. Besides… what kind of savior takes joy in knowing you’re going to be in agony as that potion knits your bones back together?” But even as she said it, a tear rolled down her cheek. 

He frowned to see it. To stand up, to take her face in his hands as he had so many times in quiet, dark corners--to reassure her for the millionth time that he would always choose her. To tell her why he had thrown himself on the mercy of the Dark Lord… the longing clogged his throat and he couldn’t speak. His head fell back against the wall as his breathing slowed, accommodating the potion, which course through him. Draco closed his eyes.

 _I love you._ He should have told her when he first realized it. If it came out now, she’d never believe him. It would hurt her to hear it. The truth would wound her worse than his deeds.

Something clattered beside him, against the wall. His wand. He looked up at her in shock.

“Now that you’re out of harm’s way… I’m going. Don’t look for me,” she said softly. “You won’t find me.”

His heart clenched. _Don’t go. I need you._ His mouth betrayed him, even still. “Bold of you to assume I won’t hex you the moment you turn your back.”

“Funny… that doesn’t _sound_ like ‘goodbye.” Hermione stepped backwards, taking him in one last time--and as far as he knew, she really meant it.


	8. Day 8 - Observed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco's attraction is obvious to everyone except for them. Harry and Pansy have had enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Wherever one goes, the other is sure to follow.”  
> Adjective: Uptight  
> Noun: Zephyr  
> Verb: Contest

Hermione Granger nodded once. His head bend closer to her to speak softly; she raised an eyebrow, and a small smile reached her dimples. She turned and her cloak floated into his outstretched fingers, and then away again. Touching but not grasping. Magnetized. His fingers flexed from the electricity of her, unconsciously, as his posture curved around her. Draco Malfoy filled her negative space. She was a zephyr. He was a feather. And it was painfully clear to everyone but _them._

“They’re so bloody oblivious,” Pansy whispered. 

“I don’t know. I think one of them is bound to get wise, and soon.” Harry sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. His wife shrugged.

“Wherever one goes, the other is sure to follow. But that doesn’t mean either of those idiots will see what’s going on.” Pansy sipped her tea. “Draco’s always been dense as a rock.”

“Oh, no contest,” Harry chuckled. “But surely you don’t think she’s immune to his attention.”

“Immune?” Pansy shook her head, observing the couple once again. Hermione’s fingers clutched his sleeve, bracing to adjust a pinching buckle on her shoe. He dutifully held her up. His mouth curled in a teasing manner; he said something that made her redden. “No. She’s not. But she would do better to give him some… reassurance.”

“Maybe they’re comfortable pretending.”

“You really think _that much_ sexual tension is _comfortable?”_ Pansy reached across the table and took her husband’s hand. “Or are you admitting to being an uptight bastard that I had to wear down for _three years--”_

 _“We_ are not them, my love.” Harry patted her hand. “Hermione needs clarity. Solidarity.”

“Draco needs security, too,” Pansy countered. “And a woman who will fill the void left by Narcissa Malfoy, and trust me--that is not an easy task.”

“If there’s anybody who could rise to the occasion…” Harry trailed off, but he pointed to his dear friend, who was toeing off her heels. 

Hermione’s feet were killing her, by the looks of it. The heels hung from her fingers and she wiggled her stocking toes. Draco flicked his wand and her shoes danced into the air at her side. He inclined his head.

Hermione padded out of the caf, followed dutifully by Draco and her levitating shoes. His hand hovered at her waist, not quite touching her back but curling around her protectively. She tilted her chin up and smiled at him. They turned the corner and were gone.

Pansy’s head swung back to Harry and she perched her head on her hand. “Am I right or am I right?”

“I’m not one to intervene, but…”

“I am begging you. Intervene. I can’t take any more of his heavy sighs when she’s away on assignment.” Pansy gripped his hands in a deathly squeeze.

Harry sat forward. “I think you’re secretly a romantic, Mrs. Potter.”

“You married me!” She laughed.

“Thank the gods you weren't subtle!”


	9. Day 9 - Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows just how to care for her favorite place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 - Prompt: Sunflowers  
> Adjective: Wild  
> Noun: Spade  
> Verb: Breed

Her garden always showed signs of new growth the first week of May. It didn’t matter when new seeds were sewn. The trees would be wick and bursting with buds before it seemed safe, before the last frost of spring. The garden always flourished anyway. The plants were persistent.

He wiped his forehead, tucking his spade into the pocket on his belt. 

_ Merlin’s beard, Hermione. How much do you expect me to do before the garden takes over?  _ He asked in his mind. The wind flicked his hair off his forehead.

The chains of the swing whined against the branches of the willow tree. He smiled. She loved that swing. Dumb rusty old thing. It would break one day and then she’d be sorry. Until then, the wind took it for a ride. The chains froze up with rust more and more every year. It was her swing, it stayed.

Draco’s only addition to the walled garden space was a small patch of sunflowers in a sunny corner. They were a common breed, domestic but prone to reaching their leaves towards sunlight long after their heads bent low. Still… she liked them. She loved  _ him _ . So they stayed.

He brushed off his pants and sat on the stone bench, curving his elbow around the plaque. His finger traced her name.

“Happy birthday, darling,” he whispered. “Your garden is wild as ever. The robins are fighting me for dominion over the ivy, but I will prevail.” He laughed, and the sound floated away from him on a breeze, which kicked the side of the swing and sent it whirling. “Fine. The ivy stays.”

His promise was easy to keep, when it involved caring for her favorite place… and planting flowers in her memory. It almost helped.


	10. Day 10 - After Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco doesn't want to sit with his grief. Hermione's willing to help.
> 
> TW: parent loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 10 - Prompt: I’ve got you.  
> Adjective: Unruly  
> Noun: Part  
> Verb: Smother

It had begun as a sort of dare.  _ Lean in. Feel something. How close can you get? Are you afraid to let me see it?  _ “You’re safe here,” she said finally.

“You grossly overestimate how much I care,” he said, shoving her away from him. But he shivered. She countered, leaning over him as unruly tendrils of her hair tickled his shoulder, placing her hands on his shoulders to comfort him.

Then, she knelt between his knees. Challenging him to give in to being comforted. She ghosted her palms up his arms. He whimpered.

“It’s okay to cry,” she whispered. 

“I know that,” he spat. Contrary to his ire, he doubled over, accidentally butting his head into her shoulder. She cradled his head in the crook of her neck. He didn’t fight her. He wanted to--Merlin how he wanted to throw her away to a safe distance and run as far as his legs could take him. Instead, he smothered himself in her rose-scented blouse and wept.

For his mother, for the one who had fought to keep him alive. 

For the life she could have had if only his father had loosened his grip. 

For not being there with her as she fought for her life in St. Mungo’s, because he was on assignment overseas. 

But someone had been there.  He gripped her robe so tightly the seams strained. “Why did it have to be you?” His voice was muffled in her shoulder. She cupped his head, smoothing his hair. She said nothing, but her free arm snaked around his waist and embraced him fully. “I should have been here.”

“She wasn’t in any pain,” Hermione said. “She asked to be comfortable.”

“I don’t want to know.” 

“Every night before bed, Healer Lovegood read her the Prophet. Only the fluff pieces, of course, but she loved the gossip columns.” Hermione smiled against his hair. “One time you appeared in a brief footnote after going out with Blaise Zabini and she had me cut out the article so she could press it in her book.”

He pulled back and frowned at her. “I hate to think what it said.”

“Nothing terrible. She didn’t much care either way. Your name was in print, and she was proud.” Hermione sat back on her heels, but Draco’s hands shot out and grabbed her elbows for purchase. She compromised and gave him her hands to worry instead. He finally breathed in a ragged, conciliatory breath.

Draco shook his head once. “You’re probably dying to get back to your rounds. Away from all this… heaviness.” It wasn't an apology so much as an out.

“I’ve got you.” She touched his cheek.

Only then did he look up at her. She had caramel irises, which shone from unshed tears, rendering them closer to gold in the lamplight. Her long hair was unruly, yes, but it also cascaded over her shoulders in wild, winding curls, pulled back at the temples to keep her mane off her face. She wore her white healer robes, and a lovely black blouse, which he knew was silk from the slide of the fabric against his forehead. She was still kneeling at his feet. Just… looking at him. She had nowhere to be but  _ there _ .

Draco grasped her shoulders. His face contorted--something about seeing her emotions safely contained made his feel inauthentic. “How do I... “ He sniffed. He shrugged. How would he take his next breath? Stand up from that chair? Eat his next meal… without his Mother. 

“I know a place with great midnight pancakes,” Hermione said. 

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ll eat,” she insisted. Hermione stood and he released her robes reluctantly. But she held out her hands to him and urged him to stand. “Come on.”

“I don’t know.”

“Doctor’s orders. Up, up.” Hermione grabbed his elbow and tugged. It took all of his energy to rise to his feet, but once he did, he towered over her. She straightened his coat, which had crawled up to his ears when he had collapsed into the chair beside his mother’s empty hospital bed. 

_ Someday, I will kiss this woman _ , he thought, squaring his shoulders. Part of him wanted to do it now, but it felt cheap in the aftermath of grief. 

Healer Granger led him through the hallway to the lifts, down two floors, and into the caf. The hospitals small restaurant served food at all hours, thanks to the dedicated house elves. They did indeed serve pancakes at… well, it was nearly twelve-thirty in the morning by the times they reached the buffet. She chose a table off in the corner for them to sit at and positioned the seats so his back was to the room. She said nothing. He just stared at his plate… until a deep groan sounded from his belly.

He picked up his fork, and… he took a bite. 

Never again would he have to wonder what food would taste like without Narcissa Malfoy living on the planet… which sounded absurd in his head and still felt dire. But pancakes still tasted like… syrup and sugar, and butter. Somethings stay the same.

Hermione folded her hands together and braced her elbows on the table. Only then did he realize that she hadn’t gotten anything to eat.

“You should eat something,” he scoffed.

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“You’re knackered. It’s obvious.” Draco pushed his plate across the table to her; the porcelain still bore two pancakes, which he had drizzled in syrup. Part and parcel with drowning his sorrows.

“I am well,” she laughed softly, pushing the plate back to him. “But thank you for your concern.”

He sat back and fear crossed his face. “You’re… just.  _ Here _ .”

She nodded.

“...Why?”

“Because I know that the hardest meal to eat after you lose a parent is the first one. The hardest…  _ anything _ . And I had to do it alone. But you shouldn’t have to.” She sniffed and looked away, breaking the self-assured gaze down into a twisted grimace. 

Draco leaned forward. He felt teasing words pushing at his lips, but he bit his tongue.

He reached out both hands.

She took them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY. I know it's Mother's Day in the US but I'm in my feelings and so is Draco. Lol!


	11. Day 11 - Deserve Better (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaise catches Lavender listening at her boss' door...
> 
> *Blaise/Lavender, with background Dramione*
> 
> Part 2 tomorrow will be the Draco/Hermione side of the story :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Nobody has to know."

_ “Nobody has to know.” _

_ “I’d know.” _

_ “Come on. It would be worth it.”  _

Their voices were low and intimate; in all the years that Lavender had been his secretary, she had never heard him talk to a woman in such… desperate tones. With her ear pressed to the door, she could hear wood creaking--straining even. Whining rhythmically. She shut her eyes. 

Gods. It tortured her to hear it, but Draco Malfoy had never even given her a second glance, and if he was happy… or sated, at least, she could be happy for him. If she could only--

“Are they…?”

Lavender jumped back from the door at the sound of Blaise’s voice over her shoulder. “Oh my  _ gods _ , Blaise!” she whispered fiercely. “You can’t sneak up on me like that--”

“Sorry,” he chuckled. “She’s been in there a while, hasn’t she.”

Lavender shrugged. “An hour or so.”

Blaise rubbed his hands together. “Do you want me to find out what they’re up to?”

“I could hear just fine, thank you!” Lavender stood, taking her seat behind her own desk, which sat beside his office door.

“Lav,” Blaise sighed, leaning against her desk. “You can’t go on like this!”

“What?”

“Pining after your boss!”

She gasped. “I’m not!”

“Listening to him fuck another woman is in your job description, then.”

Lavender heated so furiously that she had to shuck off her cardigan. She fanned her face. “I don’t have to explain myself!”

He skirted around the edge of her desk and put his hands on the arm rests of her chair, bracing her in. “Darling, you deserve better.” He leveled his face with hers. “This can’t be fulfilling for you.”

She looked down at his hands--strong, big enough to palm a quaffle--and his arms, the way the muscles strained against the cuffs of his sleeves where he had rolled them up to combat the lack of air con. She swallowed hard. “Torture, actually.” Her voice broke. Blaise cupped her cheek.

“If only there was someone who liked you,” he murmured. She looked up at his face to protest but his gaze was soft and his mouth curled up at one corner, revealing a dimple she hadn’t seen before. 

The door to Draco Malfoy’s office opened. “Zabini,” he drawled in utter annoyance. “Can you  _ not  _ harass my secretary.”

“If you cared about anyone but yourself, you’d see that she’s in distress,” Blaise said. He handed Lavender his handkerchief, shielding her from being seen by the man who was unknowingly responsible for her tears. 

“Thank you,” Lavender mouthed. He brushed a piece of hair off her forehead and then gave her some space.

“...I’ll just get this proposal to the Minister, then.” Hermione shook Draco’s awkwardly proffered hand and gave Blaise a polite nod. She looked at Lavender briefly, but seemed puzzled as to what could be done. Lavender was relieved to see her go. Hermione gave one last backward glance at Draco, who looked… pained.

“Can I speak to you for a moment?” Blaise said lowly, patting Draco on the shoulder.

“I am already late for an appointment.”

“Fine. We’ll talk later.” Blaise shrugged. He looked at Lavender over his shoulder and turned away from her, speaking as quietly as he could. Still, she didn’t miss his words. “I hope it was worth your time fucking the Minister of Magizoology on your lunch break--”

“What the hell, man?” Draco pulled out of his grasp. “We were finalizing the Centaur initiative!”

“For an  _ hour?” _

“She’s meticulous!”

“Gods, you are  _ barmy _ for her--”

“ _ Regardless,” _ Draco said quickly, “I would not and have never seduced a woman in my place of work!”

Blaise stepped back, shaking his head. “Maybe you should.”

“You are mental.”

“I’m going to tell her that you fancy her.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“A Muggle-born, though--”

“Blaise.”

“She’s so  _ plain _ .”

“I will murder you--”

“I cannot believe you’d stoop so low as to be in love with Grang---”

Draco socked him in the jaw as hard as he could and Blaise doubled over…. Laughing. Lavender lept from her chair and knelt beside him. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m sorry,” Draco panted. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Just… go after her,” Blaise said, rubbing his jaw. His lip bled a little. Lavender blotted at it with the handkerchief he had loaned her. He winced and stilled her hand, grasping her wrist.

Draco looked as if he’d been the one punched in the face. He turned on his heel and practically ran for the lifts, following the path that Hermione Granger had taken just a few minutes prior. 

Blaise sat back on his heels and caught his breath, finally. “Sorry,” he said.

“Why are  _ you _ sorry?” Lavender exclaimed. “I can’t believe he punched you! Arsehole!”

He barked a rich, surprised laugh. “Never thought I’d hear you call him that! But I’m sorry I goaded him.” He threw up his hands. “Frankly, Ms. Brown… I’m tired of seeing you so sad. And even more tired of watching him do nothing about his  _ own  _ feelings. So. Call me selfish, but…” He took the handkerchief from her and pressed it to his lip, which still bled angrily.

Lavender grasped his vest. “But why would you do that for me?” She blushed under his gaze.

“Because I’m not afraid of my feelings.” He touched her chin. “I am very fond of you.” 

“You are?” she peeped.

He gestured at his face. “I’m literally  _ bleeding  _ for you, Lav.”

She squared her shoulders and smacked his chest. “Ugh! Now I feel bad.” 

“Why?” he laughed. 

“Because!” She sighed. “Here I am with a stupid crush and you just… swan in here and comfort me and take a punch for me… what in Merlin’s name am I supposed to do, now?”

“Get a better job,” he countered. “You have more talents than reception.”

She shook her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “I meant… what am I supposed to do about  _ you?” _

Blaise smiled, tucking her hair behind her ears. She leaned into the gentle touch. “Let me take you to dinner.”

She blinked at him. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

She was confused and embarrassed, and frankly vibrating… not to mention drawn to his skin against her skin, so she just nodded. The smile that broke across Blaise Zabini’s face had her forgetting why she had ever been sad in the first place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a rare pairing for you! Idk. :)


	12. Day 12 - Deserve Better (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco runs after Hermione.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for dropping off on my daily updates. My life is a bit crazy right now with all the virus insanity and I was feeling quite down! This was difficult for me to finish, and I'm not totally happy with it, but what's important is getting things out and pushing through some block. Thank you for reading! I will continue updating for the full 31 days, even if I run into June. ;)
> 
> This is the continuation of Day 11, prompt "Nobody has to know"!

Day 12 - Prompt: “Nobody has to know.”

He ran.

All the way to the lifts.

He pounded the Up button until the doors opened and swept inside, nearly colliding with another wizard as he exited. “Sorry,” he muttered, pressing the button for the fourth floor. He stared down at the swirling carpet.

What was he doing? 

_ Go after her. _

Right. ...why?

_

_ “Nobody has to know.” _

_ “I’d know.” _

_ “Come on. It would be worth it.”  _

_ “Malfoy… we can’t fudge the numbers!” Hermione sighed.  _

_ “Why not?” He scribbled notes so hard on his notepad that his desk squeaked. He underlined the number, the goal--1.5 million galleons was the magic number to reclaim the centaur land in the highlands for the herd, but they had to prove that there were at least five hundred thousand living centaurs in the wild. As far as their research had proven, there were about half that willing to be documented, and even less willing to do any sort of business with magical human beings. But more than enough to be worthy of reclamation. One centaur would’ve been worthy. _

_ It was harder to convince the Ministry of this without substantial numbers. _

_ Draco turned the pad towards her and sat back, crossing his arms. “It’s not unprovable, and… the herd could regain control of their land before the new year.” _

_ Hermione sat back and looked over the figures, sending Draco into a nervous fit. _

_ She was… so beautiful. And it wasn’t just the fact that she had grown into her petite features over the years. Her heart yearned to help disenfranchised magical beings, and she accepted no substitute for real, substantial aid. She demanded integrity. She demanded… responsibility, from the landowners and common wizards, for how they treated their magical kin. Her heart was radiant, and he was absolutely crazy over her… something that had become increasingly difficult to ignore, lately. _

_ A commotion sounded outside his office door, causing Hermione to jolt upright in her chair and sigh, deeply. She peered at her watch. _

_ “I have to go.” _

_ He nodded. “I have a meeting in ten minutes.” It was a lie, but he tried not to sound sad. _

_ “Give me time to look this over,” she said, tucking the folder into her case. “I’m sorry… I don’t feel comfortable with forcing the numbers. Even if it gives us the outcome we want.” She tilted her head and considered him. “If the project passed and our numbers were exposed to be wrong… it could do even more harm. Don’t you see that?” _

_ He sighed. “I know.” _

_ “I’m as anxious to pass this initiative as you. But there has to be a better way.” _

_ Draco nodded. He stood as she did, buttoning his outer robe. Her eyes flicked to his hands and then away, just as quickly. Her cheeks reddened slightly. She coughed. _

_ Oh. _

_ Really. _

_ He took a hesitant step towards her and touched her shoulder. “Thank you. For working on this project with me.” _

_ Her shoulder tensed in his grip but she smiled, nodding. “Centaur rights are very important to me.” _

_ “I mean, for working on it with… me.” He emphasized it by squeezing her arm. _

_ She shrugged. “It’s fine.” Her voice faltered. “Tell you what… I’ll show this to the Minister in our meeting and get his thoughts. Maybe there’s a way to submit the bill without including any population numbers.” _

_ Draco couldn’t help but smile. “Good. Thank you, again.” _

_ Hermione laughed. “You’re welcome. Again.” _

_ Draco’s hand drifted up and brushed a piece of hair off her shoulder. She leaned into his touch slightly. They seemed to be… stuck. _

_

Right. 

His hand ached. Shouldn’t have punched Blaise. Just… how could Blaise think he felt like that anymore?

He wasn’t good enough for her, but it wasn’t because he still thought she had… Draco sighed. He just  _ wanted her.  _ He didn’t overanalyze why, but… every single time he got to work with her, or spend any amount of time with her, he felt at ease in the way no glass of mead had ever been able to accomplish. At ease, and yet… excited. And pathetic. But mostly excited.

The lift opened for the fourth floor. Blocking his path was Hermione Granger. She looked up at him in surprise, and then slowly, a smile filled her face. He stepped aside for her to enter and she stood next to him.

“The Minister is positive about our bill,” she offered.

“That’s good news.”

“Yes. I’ll draft a new copy, focusing less on the numbers and more about conservation… we can submit it this week.”

“Excellent.”

The lift doors closed but it remained on the fourth floor. Draco hadn’t really had a plan past reaching her…

“Didn’t you have a meeting?” she asked.

“Uh… cancelled. Longbottom’s ill.”

“Neville’s out for a week while Luna’s recovering,” she said, but her tone was touched with amusement.

“...then it’s a good thing I cancelled our meeting,” Draco said, wincing. 

She laughed gently. “Yes, that was thoughtful of you.”

“What floor?” he whispered, even though the lift was empty. 

“Do you want to go out with me?” she said abruptly. A bit too loudly. 

Draco blinked. “Um…”

“You can say no. I just… thought… I mean, we’ve been meeting a lot and it seemed, at least to me--maybe I’m just reading into it. I realize that we show things differently, and maybe you’re just being nice, but I had  _ hoped... _ ” she blushed and looked down.

He took her hand. “No, enough of that. You weren’t reading into anything. If anything, I show  _ nothing _ compared to what I feel, which is to say... Yes.” He coughed. “I’m bloody nervous.”

She looked at him bashfully. “Good.”

“It’s settled, then.” Draco pressed the first floor button and squeezed her hand. He chuckled and then winced. He should really bandage that hand. “Gods…”

“What?” Hermione held up their clasped hands and gasped, cradling his skinned knuckles. “What happened?” 

“I… might have punched Zabini.”

“He was just flirting with Lavender,” she gently admonished.

“Oh, he’s mad about her,” Draco said. “But that’s not why.” He gave her a pointed look and smiled apologetically.

Hermione frowned. She took her wand out of her robe pocket and held it over his fingers. “ _ Episkey!” _ Draco’s torn skin knitted itself back together. He wiggled his fingers in relief. 

The lift door opened and Draco braced himself for Hermione to jump away from him, lest any witch or wizard see them together, but she just tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. They walked slowly together, through the atrium of the entrance. Neither knew what precisely to say.

She stopped walking, just before the fountain, and turned to him.

“You don’t need to overthink this, but…” She straightened and looked at him squarely, confidently. “I forgave you a long time ago. And you deserve to know it.”

Draco stepped into her bubble and let go of a ragged breath. Her hands fell to his chest, which he grabbed for purchase. He shook his head. How could she just… know? Hermione smiled.

“Tea?” she asked softly. He nodded.

Hermione pulled him past several confused onlookers, to the floos, and didn’t give him another chance to second-guess it.


	13. Day 13 - Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have an arrangement--he's in charge, but she's in control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 13 - Prompt: “Of all the things my hands have held, the best by far is you.”  
> Adjective: Hallowed  
> Noun: Ornament  
> Verb: Rely
> 
> Here be some dirty dirty words! Finally getting to some of my more mature prompts. I love the idea of them being in a sub/dom relationship where it's all about them *both* getting boundaries. :)
> 
> Note: Hermione doesn't use a safe word, she removes her blindfold to end their scene, but it is a respected cue.

Her eyes were covered in a silk tie. The turkish carpet bit into her knees and the heels of her hands, but she waited. He wanted her to wait. He wanted her to want. This was their hallowed space.

*

When the door opened, he took measured steps to avoid disturbing her meditative posture. When she let her hair fall down in front of her face, it meant she was quieting herself. How they came to this part of their relationship, he’d never been able to fully figure. For her, being at the whim of his rules was a form of control, and he wanted to give her everything she wanted. And he had to pretend that she didn’t send him into a fit of anticipation the moment he saw her in a supplicating pose. Small sacrifices. He had spent a long time pretending she had no effect on him. Tapping into that for the benefit of her pleasure was a nostalgic game. But it also terrified him.

“What if,” he drawled, perching himself on the edge of his desk. The sound of his voice jolting her head up to attention, and she squared her shoulders. “What if I invited our dear… friends to dinner, and this was the sight that greeted them?” He clicked his tongue. Her back arched a bit. “My ornament. Better naked than clothed. Better silent than yammering away… better wet.”

She made a strangled sound and turned her head towards him, begging him wordlessly to go on.

He snickered. “What if I… let them touch you? Would that excite you?”

She was not allowed to speak until he bade her to do so, but he watched her mouth form voiceless answers.

Draco pushed off the desk and knelt beside her. He bent down to her ear. “Of all the things my hands have held, the best by far… is you.” She shivered. “But I would share… if that’s what you wanted.”

He absolutely did not want to share her, and the thought of it sent a stab of anguish through his chest, but the bait was enough for her, not the offer. She shook her head slowly. He nosed her temple.

“Speak, pet.”

“No, sir.”

“Oh, no? Hmmm…” he pitched his voice down in mock disappointment. His hand hovered above her shoulders, deciding how to touch her first. In the end his finger fell between her shoulder blades in a feather light graze. He ghosted one finger down her spine. “But imagine… being touched, never knowing…” he paused at the dimples in her lower back, rubbing circles there, daring her to react as she had been trained not to. “...if it’s Zabini or Nott touching you. Pansy… with her fingers in your cunt…” Draco pulled his hand away and her shoulders sagged in disappointment at the loss of contact, and she went down onto her elbows, breathing heavy. His fingers curled into her hair and urged her head back.

“Or… if it’s just me, making them watch as I rut into you.” His lips graced her brow, giving her a chance to lean into the touch meant as what it was: an apology for suggesting he could ever share her, an acknowledgment that he loved her beyond all possibility of humiliating her, that he  _ knew _ she was at her limit of what he might say before fantasy blurred into worry. But it was at that edge that they found the safety of choosing one another, every time. That boundary was why this was sexy. So why was  _ he _ shaking? 

“Tell me, dearest. Would that excite you?”

Her voice caught. “If it pleased you, master.” Her fingers reached up and tugged her blindfold off. Her eyes were wide but her look was sure. 

Draco sat back on his heels. The scene was over, she removed her safety. Now, he waited for her to make the next choice. His heart was in his throat. It was rare that he pushed her far enough to pull her safety. He felt so guilty, his hands gripped his trousers. 

She crawled to him and pushed up on her knees, wrapping her arms around his neck. He sighed into her shoulder.

“Too much?” he murmured against her skin.

“No, it was hot,” she said frankly, shaking with light laughter. “But I felt you tense up.” 

He held her around the waist. “Maybe I spooked myself. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? It’s not sexy unless we’re both into it.” She kissed his cheek, his temple, his brow.

“I don’t want to share you. Saying the words felt like I was… betraying myself.” His hands fell down her sides and gripped her bum possessively.

Hermione rubbed his neck. “Oh, love,” she soothed. “What we do is only for us. It’s the gift we give each other, and I rely on you to help me feel safe.”

“Some master I am,” Draco growled. “Can’t even commit to my own fantasy.” 

“Stop that,” she whispered. “Let’s just… go, lay in our bed, and then I can show you what the sound of your voice did to me. No blindfolds, no fantasies.”

He kissed her collarbone and stood, lifting her deftly. “It  _ would _ be nice to see your eyes when you come, for once.” He couldn’t help the wry smile that crossed his face and she shook her head in amusement.

“Let’s mix things up. Make love face to face.”

“ _ Wicked. _ I like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teehee! I told you I'd get around to some more mature themes later on. I'll get to some full smut down the road, I'm certain.


	14. Day 14 - Puppy Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shouldn't have turned down her help, but lucky for him, she wasn't about to let him go through his transformation alone.
> 
> Werewolf!Draco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 14 - Prompt: The feeling that something isn't quite right, red glinted eyes, and the sound of chains dragging across the floor.

“Here, boy,” she called, tapping her wand on the railing of the stairs. “Come on, little puppy! I have a treat for you!” Her bag jingled as she climbed higher. It would annoy him to no end to hear her call him that, but she sort of felt like annoying him right now. Make foolish choices and you deserve a bit of torment.

From somewhere above, the sound of groaning boards echoed. The wind was known to rock the shack on the axis of the staircase, but this sounded like footsteps… and chains. Dragging behind. He was up there. Pacing. And then… a heavy thump.

Her heart clenched. It didn’t feel right… why was he just… waiting her out? “Come out! It’s only me!”

A growl. A whimper. He was hurt.

She pressed her back to the wall, inclining her head to see how much further up he was. A mass of black fur sagged against the railing, head lolling back. He caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye and his red eyes glinted in recognition, though he was not lucid enough to truly recognize who was tailing him. Three bloody claw marks marred his neck. His own doing. His transformations never went well, but this was another level. He was getting worse.

Her voice broke. “Merlin, Draco.”

He whined. It had been Harry’s idea to chain him in the shack, the way Lupin had always done during his cycles, but maybe restraining him had done him more harm than good. Hermione had wanted to be there, to guard him from himself. Draco had refused.

So, here he was. Bleeding out from his own claws.

She took a tentative step up to the landing. He growled in warning. “You won’t hurt me,” she assured him. “You  _ can’t _ hurt me.”

When he had been infected, he had withdrawn from her. It was on a case, which he elected to take without a partner. It was his fault, he thought. Only reckless fools get bitten. Fools deserve what comes to them. Unaided transformations included. His first one had been… beyond words. After, he had been in St. Mungo’s for a week. It had torn her apart. This time, she had come to help.

Not a moment too soon.

He snapped at her, jaws dripping with desperate spit. She leveled her wand at him. “ _ Petrificus totalus! _ ” The hulking wolf went limp and she sprung at him, ripping the vial out of her bag and jabbing the needle into his neck before the body-binding spell wore off. In his transformed body, the spell burned away quickly. She had learned that the hard way only once. His chest convulsed and she depressed the plunger, forcing the potion into his bloodstream. She gripped his shoulder to steady him as his consciousness returned. Maybe, if she were just touching him--

“Agh!” she screamed. He swiped her against his chest, snarling against her neck and claws piercing the skin at her back. She winced. He could bite her, and then what? She closed her eyes. The pain rolled through her as his nails pressed deeper. 

Then, he slumped over her, pinning her to the floor. With his claw embedded in her back, she took ragged breaths. He shuddered against her ear as the potion took effect, bones breaking, shortening--coming back to their human form. Fur retreating, canines dulling. Claws… retracting. She whimpered as his hand softened beneath her, the fingers that she knew so well trapped between her body and the splintering wood. His head weighed a ton against her chest but his blonde hair tickled her cheek. Her eyes pricked with tears. It worked. The one arm that she had free raised to touch his clammy skin.

“Draco,” she whispered. “Please wake up.” Her tears streamed down her face. Her back was numb. But he was alive, and his nasty cut would probably scar.

She grasped for her wand and found it finally, pinned under his heavy thigh. She tugged at it, springing new stabs of pain in her shoulder, which felt at the  _ least  _ dislocated. “ _ Rennervate! _ ” He came to quickly,  _ too  _ quickly, butting his head against hers and kneeing her forcefully in the side. She screamed again and curled away from him, clutching at her head and dragging her limp arm across her body.

“ _ Hermione!” _ he crawled to her, naked as the day he was born and blood seeping from the wound across the side of his neck. The marks were more shallow in his skin than she had originally thought, but still worried her. 

“You’re hurt,” he gasped. He pulled her shirt up to look at her wound. “ _ I hurt you. _ ”

“I’ll be alright.” She winced as he steadied her by her hip. “What’s important is that your episode is over.” Hermione glanced at him as best as she could. Her tears carved trails through the dust on her cheeks from the dirty old shack.

“I could’ve killed you!” 

“You would’ve bled out if I didn’t come.” She handed him her wand. “Please… I can’t bear it, can you…” she gestured to her back.

Draco waved her wand over the claw marks at her back.  _ “Episkey!” _ She arched as the pain ebbed, easing into a dull ache. She rolled over and looked up at him. He pulled her up into his arm and she gasped. “What is it?”

“My shoulder. It’s out of place.”

He held her against his chest and pressed his palm to her dislocated shoulder. “Breathe in?” As she did, he shoved the bone back into place and she buried a groan into his skin. He soothed her with strokes over her mussed hair, kisses at her temple. “This is why I didn’t want you to be here,” he said, but his tone was markedly distressed. “This is my penance, but I will not be responsible for hurting you. It will kill me, I know it.”

“If you plan on surviving to see your next birthday, you need me.” She pressed her cheek to his chest and quieted her anxiety listening to his heart beating rapidly. She touched her wand to his neck. _"Episkey!"_ she returned the favor and his skin stabilized--he touched his neck in shock. He hadn't even realized he was hurt.

He littered her forehead and cheeks with kisses. “I can’t put you in danger like this.”

“You must.” She tilted her chin so his lips could reach hers and he paused, hovering centimetres from her face. “A night of danger once a month, for a lifetime of lucidity.”

Draco shook his head, but he kissed her softly. There was no use arguing with her. She would have her way, whether he “let her” or not. And there was something to be said about knowing that she would always come after him.

His lips settled on her forehead. “Did you call me… a puppy?” he chuckled against her skin.

“It seemed nicer than  _ arsehole. _ ” 

He smiled. “Point taken.”

“I brought you clothes.” She fished the trousers and top out of the bag at her side, soft pyjama fabrics that would be unrestricting and gentle on his still-sensitive skin. 

Draco sighed. What would it be like to deserve such care? He wasn’t sure he knew, but he wasn’t going to question it. “I love you.”

She kissed him. “You’d better.”


	15. Day 15 - He Shouldn't, But He Does

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has cold feet. Draco sends a note.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 15 - Prompt: “You are the sun.”  
> Adjective: Tender  
> Noun: Clock  
> Verb: Saddle

“There’s a note for you, dear.” Molly set the envelope on her vanity. Hermione stared out the window but she nodded faintly. People milled about on the cobblestones below, moving flowers, plates of food, exchanging baskets and setting the stage for what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. She glanced at the clock. The hands seemed to freely float around the face. 

She wanted to vomit.

This didn’t feel happy. It felt like a pageant for the things that their relationship had wrought. Capped with a massive cake and a mashed potato bar. A signature cocktail. A choreographed first dance. For what?

His parents hated her.  _ Hated. _ They had tried to get along, but all it took was one dinner eight years ago to know that they would never be her fan. It had hurt him. They way they rejected her outright… he had met with them privately several times afterwards, in fact. But they wouldn’t budge. Perhaps it was because she called Lucius a “facist nazi-sypathizing albino mer-man” after he insinuted that she was a man-hating slag. Draco took her side. He cut them out of his life. They cut him out of their will, and cut off his inheritance. He stuck by her. He was smart with his money, and she had her practice, so they were fine. They weren’t rich, but they didn’t hurt for basic comforts. The last week of the month they usually subsisted on a menu based entirely around ramen, but it didn’t matter. They had a tender thing.

When he had finally proposed, after eight years of dating and  _ three  _ trying to just  _ talk _ to her about marriage, and Hermione  _ staunchly insisting _ that nobody was crazy enough to bind themselves to her contractually for the rest of their lives, she had said “you’re bloody joking” and then burst into tears. It had taken about twenty minutes for him to calm her down enough to convince her that he wasn’t kidding, that he loved her, and that he thought she was beautiful with snot running down her face. And that  _ ring. _ No diamonds. Just one emerald, and a silver band. Her fingertips worried the perfect ring.

Why did she feel like she was ruining his life?

In a white dress. In a veil. With two hundred guests waiting to watch him make the biggest mistake of his life. Saddling himself with a ball and chain with forty-one inch hips and an anxiety disorder. He  _ loved  _ her hips. He worshipped them. And, to his credit, he always cradled her when she had a panic.

Hermione gasped and bolted for the door. She had to stop this, call it off--run away. Convince him not to ruin himself with her. He was too good. Too dedicated. She reached for the doorknob… locked. She pounded on the door.

_ “...hello?” _ Molly answered from the other side.  _ “Yes, dear?” _

“Why is my door locked?” Hermione shouted, kicking at the base of the door.

_ “Read the note!” _

“What?” Hermione huffed. The door wouldn’t budge. She had no tools. Normally she had her multi-tool, but it was packed away in her purse, in their suitcases for the honeymoon, which were at the hotel, where Draco was getting ready with his groomsmen. Couldn’t even pick the lock. Or take the door off its hinges. 

_ “Read the letter, Hermione. It’s on your vanity.” _

She snatched up the blue envelope, ripping the paper in desperation. There was a card inside, with two birds sitting on a wire printed on the front. One wore a top hat. She opened the card and huffed. His neat cursive filled the page.

> _ Dearest, _
> 
> _ Take a deep breath. _
> 
> _ I love you. _
> 
> _ I know you’re freaking out right now… you do that. I love that about you. You care so much about the way other people feel that you take it upon yourself to make their lives better, but today? Hermione, this party is for you. So no running, okay? You can’t change my mind. I’m in this for the long-haul. There’s nothing else for it. You have to marry me, or I won’t shut up about it. _
> 
> _ You are the sun. Everything in my life revolves around the life I have built with you. You are midnight. You are the first rain of spring. Things happen because you give them purpose. You give me purpose. You are my family. And I know this because you still love me even when I’m a total arse. You don’t always like me, but you always give me a chance to explain myself. That’s what family does. What else could I want? _
> 
> _ Which is why, you’re going to take another deep breath. You’re going to put your shoulders down. You’re going to knock on the door three times and then Mrs. Weasley will unlock it, take your arm, and lead you down the stairs. When you walk down the aisle, I’ll be waiting at the end of it. I’ll always wait for you, Hermione Granger. _
> 
> _ Love, _
> 
> _ Draco _

Her hand raised slightly and paused, hovering over the white-stained birch. She knocked three even times. The lock slid back in the mechanism, and Molly opened the door. She smiled.

“He knows you.”


	16. Day 16 - The Tourist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is backpacking in Wales and she wanders into a pub... with a very sexy, blond bartender.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 16 - Prompt: A B&B, a lost shoe, a rainstorm  
> Adjective: Plucky  
> Noun: Stew  
> Verb: Hum

She shivered, perched on the stool and dripping onto the hundred-year-old slate floors. He slid a steaming cup of _something_ to her. 

“On the house,” he affirmed with a wink. Then, he walked away to tend to other guests, Welsh jumper cuffed at his elbows and blond hair flopped over his forehead as if he couldn’t be arsed to chase it back again. He was muscular, and tattooed on both forearms. She gulped. Hot. 

A hot _toddy_. That’s what she had ordered. To chase away her traveler’s blues.

He had snickered, but he steeped the tea for her anyway. He chopped and squeezed the lemon. He stirred in the honey. He chose a cup and matching saucer… which felt like a dig, really. It was clearly the nicest china in a pub filled with thick ceramic mugs and foggy glassware. She was a princess out of place. With a missing shoe, thanks to a mud puddle about a half mile up the road. And drenched from the rain. Her pack shoved under her feet against the bar.

The sexy bartender returned here and there, tending to her spiked tea with a splash of bourbon, scooting a small dish filled with salted nuts into her grasp. Handing her a clean towel to dry off her hair. A ham sandwich. A glass of water. The alcohol swirled warmly in her brain but not enough to muddle her will. Just enough to anticipate his next little gift. Each time, he fell down on his forearms before her, crossing his hands to hook into the crooks of his elbows. He smiled in a way where he was both raking his gaze over every inch of her that he could see, and also giving her space to decide if she liked it.

She… did. Like it. Like him. More than any flavor of tea that had ever graced her tongue, more than the sting of bourbon at the dimples of her jaw. Which bit, in a way that a lover bits at the right gland in the crook of one’s neck. Which she imagined… colorfully. Every time his tongue met the skin of his lips. What was his name again? It didn’t matter. Here she was, in the middle of Wales, backpacking out of obscurity and into her quarter life crisis. The bartender was _hot_ , she had a room for the night… who cares what else happened here, where nobody knew her name?

When last call came, the sexy blond bartender chased the aging Welshmen away, and curled his hand around her wrist over the counter, urging her to disobey his evacuation. She did so. When every last shepherd and farmer with his wits about him tottered out of the pub, the man locked the front door of the pub and slung his rag over his shoulder.

He leaned against the doorway into the kitchen, considering her.

“What’s your name, love?” his voice was so deep, it scraped the bottom of a hopeful barrel which she had dedicated to whatever trysts were to happen on this trip. Suddenly, she wanted him to fill it. Fill the hopes. Be the only tryst.

“Hermione,” she gulped. He nodded once.

“Shakespeare?”

“Mmm. My father’s a big fan.” He settled on the stool beside her and leaned back against the counter. He looked at her too long and she paled. “What’s your name?” she peeped.

He shook his head. “That has to be earned.”

“...how do I earn it?”

He grinned. “You’re plucky.”

“I think it’s a fair request.”

“We don’t get many newcomers,” he said softly. “You appear to be running from something, and I won’t ask what.” He leaned against the counter, cupping his cheek in his hand and looking at her sideways. “But you’re very sweet and the country is going to devour you if you’re not careful.”

She swallowed hard. “Is that why you had me stay after last call?”

He shook his head. “No. I just wanted to… warn you.”

“About?”

“Welshmen.”

“...aren’t you a Welshman?”

“Now you’re understanding me.” He winked. “We are as attractive as we are manipulative.”

She coughed. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

His cheeks grew flushed but his smug smile remained. “A man is confident in himself, and even more confident in his ability to protect a woman.”

She scoffed. “Ooh, boy. Aren’t you an arsehole?”

“I am.”

“Are all Welshmen such pricks?”

“Worse,” he chuckled. “But I make a mean rabbit stew, which exempts me from quite a bit of shenanigans.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Why me, then?”

He hummed. “I don’t know. I mean--” his knuckles grazed over her cheek. “You’re gorgeous. And I’ve seen a lot of gorgeous girls walk into my pub.”

She sat back out of his reach and his hand fell to the counter-top in defeat. “But?”

“But,” he emphasized, holding out an open palm for her. “I think there’s a lot more to you.”

A satisfied smile spread across her face, spanning from delight to satisfaction and dimple to dimple. “You have no idea.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I have an inkling.”

“You’re cute, too.”

“I’m Draco.”

She gasped as she laughed. “You’re _kidding.”_


	17. Day 17 - The Meaning of Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 17 - Prompt: Lanterns strung from branches, a large crowd flitting about, the smell of food drifting from stalls.  
> Adjective: Uninterested  
> Noun: Berry  
> Verb: Read

This little market was the highlight of her spring. She had stuffed her greenhouse full of new hothouse flowers and buried her dahlia tubers in November to make sure they wintered well enough to bloom before putting them to ground in May… all so they would be ready for the local market. The largest dahlias were the size of dinner plates, and varied in petal shape so broadly as to be a spectacle of explosive starbursts around her booth. The rest of the flowers were sprinkled like confetti amongst the lot. She had hydrangea and sweet peas, daisies and lupines… tulips. Roses. Sunflowers. Everything that her garden wanted to produce. They weren’t perfect blossoms, but they were pretty and they made her happy. 

And this was a jolly market indeed! Paper lanterns were strung from branch to branch; the food trucks filled the laneway with mingling scents, and the crowd flitted from booth to booth to choose their favorite trinkets or plant life.

There must have been almost fifty booths! Hermione had the good luck of being placed near a talented ceramic artist, which had inspired several couples to purchase flowers to perch in their new vases. Her booth was very inviting and cheerful.

Which is why it was puzzling that a man was staring at her booth and… frowning. He wasn’t too far off, just across the road beside a vendor who was peddling sculptures made from rusty farm equipment. He looked uninterested, or skeptical, at least.

She rolled her eyes, hoping he would decide to move along. Instead, he stepped closer.

His hands were in his pockets. He had a mock-turtleneck on, which was too much for this steamy day, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. The man had white-blond hair and the scowl seemed a permanent fixture of his personage. He held up a finger to say something but seemed to think better of it.

“They don’t smell  _ that  _ bad, do they?” she ventured. She plucked one of the english roses out of a bouquet and held it out as an act of good faith. It was light pink and the edges of the petals were ruffled gently. “This one’s on me.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Happiness. That’s a…  _ bold  _ choice.”

“What?”

“A pink rose. I would’ve gone for the dahlia, for a first acquaintance.” He shrugged. “It would’ve been a compliment to my good taste.”

She scoffed. “Don’t take the flower, then.”

“You misunderstand,” he smirked. “The meaning of the pink rose is ‘happiness’. Dahlias, on the other hand, signify ‘good taste.’ The meanings of flowers can be potent.”

Her hand fell and she blushed. “Listen, I just... grow them.”

“Oh, but that’s very important. If it weren’t for you,” he said, reaching for a sweet pea the color of a ripe purple berry, “we wouldn’t have ‘delicate pleasures.”

Hermione snorted. “Is that the meaning of the flower, or a compliment?”

“Both.” He crossed his arms and dimples formed in his cheeks.

“Are you going to  _ buy  _ any flowers, or just show off?”

“I haven’t decided yet. But you do have ‘passion.”

She put her hands on her hips. “...what gave you that idea?”

“The way you popped your hip just now, and the fact that you have red tulips, here.”

She bit her lip. “What do  _ daisies  _ mean, then?”

“Well, they can have two. ‘Innocence’, or ‘hope.”

“And if you take the meaning of my booth all together in one big bouquet, what is it telling you?”

“That you love cultivating beautiful things, and you love it more if people buy them.” He held out a twenty pound note. “Whatever this will get me. Whatever you think this--" he gestured between them, "--means,between Us."

"To acknowledge that I have any impression of an 'Us' is to acknowledge that I am charmed by this act." She snickered. "I don't have a read on you. Or... I do, but I don't think you'll like it."

Still, he held out his bank note. He said nothing. Just smiled.

She took his money and thought over what to give him. Nothing suggestive, nothing with  _ those  _ sort of meanings, that he had laid out before her. She let herself study his face. He was quite handsome. His eyes had softened at the corners, and he had just one dimple, which was being given attention by the smile that grew the longer she looked at him. But he was awfully full of himself, and that was annoying. He was forward. He liked to hear himself talk. Ugh. Why were handsome features wasted on such rude men?

Hermione reached down below her makeshift counter (which was built from apple crates with a cloth draped over them) and produced his purchase. She handed him the wax paper-wrapped package and he took it… but he was extraordinarily confused.

“This is what  _ twenty pounds _ buys at a flower stand?”

“Open it.” Hermione suppressed the urge to laugh. He unwrapped a tuna sandwich on rye.

He let out a belly laugh that completely disarmed her and Hermione couldn’t help but give in to a chuckle. “And what’s the meaning of a tuna fish sandwich?”

“Well, your manners are a little fishy,” she goaded. “And frankly, your ‘talent’ for first impressions  _ stinks.” _ She crossed her arms.

He took a massive bite out of her sandwich and tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not good at introductions.” He grinned, despite himself. “But I’m Draco.”

“ _ You’re _ eating my lunch.”

“What’s your fancy?” He nodded at the food trucks. She narrowed her eyes. Might as well get a free lunch from the guy.

“Tacos.”

He bowed, crumbling the empty wax paper into a ball and tossing it into the nearest bin. “As the lady requires.”

The man in black put his hands in his pockets and strode for the food trucks. Whistling. And he only got stranger from there.


	18. Day 18 - Netflix and Chill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco needs to clarify what they are exactly... Hermione's willing, after a little teasing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Netflix and chill  
> Adjective: Nervous  
> Noun: Nose  
> Verb: Pretend
> 
> (Thanks to Shelly for the prompt!)

He nosed her temple. She pretended not to notice. She tried to remember what they were watching. What was it? There were people in it, and something was certainly happening to them, but Hermione couldn't quite be sure what that was. His hand brushed against her knee, tickling a questioning trail up her thigh.

"Padma is still awake," she murmured. 

"Argh." He huffed and his forehead fell to her shoulder. She shifted and put her back to him, allowing him to hook his leg behind her. Hermione leaned back against his chest with her favorite fleece blanket pulled up. Draco wrapped his arms around her waist. He sighed dramatically. "You know, most people invite their boyfriend over--"

She snickered. "Ooh, boyfriend, huh?"

"--to watch Netflix and then they... do things, and don't get me wrong, I like watching... this show about American politics, I do--"

"But you'd rather do... things," she said with a laugh, which was tinged ever-so-slightly with nervous energy.

"No, I... nevermind." He hugged her tighter and tucked his chin over her shoulder. "I guess I'd rather watch something that I'm more... interested in. So I stop thinking about what I'd like to do. To my girlfriend."

"I think what you want to do is talk about being my boyfriend." She rubbed his hand and turned her head, but he was squeezing her so tightly that she couldn't turn all the way. Instead, he was gripping her like she might float away if he let go.

"Um, yeah. So..." he cleared his throat. "I've been thinking about it a lot lately. And. I come over here every night, basically--"

"Yeah, about that--I think I'm going to start charging you rent--"

"And," he emphasized, tickling her waist and making her squirm. "I think we both enjoy being... not clothed together."

"Having sex, you mean."

"Yeah."

"Say it."

"Having... mutual orgasms, in the same bed--"

"I can't believe you can't say the word--"

"Sex! Fine! We have sex! A lot! I love having sex with you! Sex, sex, sex!"

Padma's door cracked open and Hermione paused the tv. "Hey Padma," Hermione said innocently. Draco tried to hide behind the explosive wall of Hermione's hair.

"Hey," Padma said, eyebrows raised. "Sounded like someone was doing a dramatic retelling of a PornHub plot out here. Thought I'd investigate in case someone was using my blanket as a prop." The exhausted pre-med student studied her roommate on the couch with an air of amusement, mostly at how mortified Draco was.

"No worries. It was just that episode of the West Wing where Sam Seaborn yells about sex."

"Right. The Sex Episode. I'm familiar." Padma snorted. "But really, give me back that blanket."

Hermione clutched the purple blanket to her chest. "This blanket is my best friend!

"I'm hurt!" Padma clutched her chest. 

"You don't get to be hurt, you chose med school over me three years ago. Besides," Hermione said, thumbing over her shoulder at Draco, "I've replaced you with Sam Seaborn, here. Boyfriends trump best friends, so."

"Boyfriend, huh? Congrats. Since when?"

"Apparently it's recent. He just told me."

"Are you both quite finished?" Draco grumbled from beneath the curtain of Hermione's hair.

Padma grinned. "Goodnight, lovers. I'll be putting in my earplugs in roughly two minutes, so... have at it, I guess." The door to Padma's room shut and locked behind her.

Hermione wiggled out of Draco's grasp and sat up on her knees, turning to face him on the couch. He was red and looked quite sad, truth be told. "Hey," she said, touching his cheek. "I really, really like you. You know that, right?"

He smiled from only one corner of his mouth. "You do?"

"Yes, you idiot." She laughed. Then, she kissed him softly. "I'm happy to be your girlfriend."

"You are?"

Hermione groaned, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Sweet, sweet, sad boy. I call you if you're even two minutes later than I expect you. I changed my schedule so we could take European History together. I just... I'm not big on labeling things, but I see that you are, and I'd do it because I would do... anything for you." She sat back from him. He pushed his hair off his forehead.

"Would you... watch something less... chatty?" 

She laughed. "Sure. What's your fancy?"

"I'm not sure. Something calming."

Hermione stood off the couch and held out her hands to him. "Let's just go lay down and watch something on my phone. It's getting late, anyway."

He took her hands and stood. Draco kissed her softly. "I have to say, I feel relieved."

"It's not called 'Netflix and Chill' for nothing." Hermione grinned, pulling him towards her room.

"'Mione... you know that's not what Netflix and Chill means, right?"

"...you take me way too seriously." She tugged him into her bedroom, which had somehow morphed in about six months' time into theirs, and shut the door. They didn't get around to watching much of anything.


	19. Day 19 - Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has to tell her that he loves her while he still can.
> 
> (Draco is a new father)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: All my life, I have been so cold. ‘Till you.

He rocked with her in his arms. She could slip away at any moment and he wouldn’t be able to stop it. She was so fragile, so precious--so much more than he thought he deserved. She was like the first drink of water he’d had after being stranded in the desert. She was his. His one and only job was to protect her. 

Draco sniffled, pressing his lips to her forehead. Her eyes were shut in solemn sleep.

“You know, I still remember the first time I saw you.” He memorized the feeling of her hair. “It was like… my chest cracked open. And I couldn’t believe it. There you were.”

She nudged against his chin but remained asleep. He smiled. “It’s not that I had never known happiness before that, but maybe I hadn’t known warmth. All my life, I have been so cold. ‘Til you.”

She yawned, and he tensed. He cradled her gently, laying her on the bed as softly as he could. He drew the blanket up beneath her arms as she liked it, and stroked her cheek.

“I love you, baby.” He kissed her forehead. How he doted on her. The lads made fun of him, but what did he care? She was his girl. Draco raised the side of the crib and latched it in place so she wouldn’t roll out in her sleep. Then, he leaned against the railing and studied his daughter.

She was blonde--that had been inevitable. But her curls were unmistakably Hermione’s and he took great delight in watching them decide where to circle her small cranium. She was only a few months old, but full heads of hair ran in both of their families--she was doomed to have a large mane like her mother. She was perfect. 

Being a father was choking him; it wasn’t that he didn’t want a child, or that he thought he’d be a bad father, he just… didn’t quite know how to exist in the world as his own person when this tiny being was alive. He didn’t know how to rest until she was asleep. He never ate until she had eaten. He couldn’t relax until she was content. And it was bloody terrifying. Breath-stealing levels of frightening.

“My love,” Hermione whispered, leaning in the doorway. 

He smiled up at her brightly. “She’s asleep. Finally.” Draco held up a finger to his lips and backed away from the crib where baby Minerva was _finally_ sleeping. He scooted past Hermione, hooking an arm around her waist, and pulled the door shut behind them. In the hallway, he pressed his wife to the wall and kissed her soundly. His eyes pricked in the way the only seemed to do now that he was a father. Draco tucked his head into the crook of Hermione’s neck.

“Took a bit tonight, huh?” Hermione asked, stroking his cheek. 

He nodded. “She just needed to hear some stories, I think.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That her mother is very beautiful and that she is very lucky to have such a role model.” He kissed Hermione’s forehead.

“That’s not what I heard you say.” She wound her arms around his neck. Draco looked down bashfully.

“Listen… there are things I can only tell her while she doesn’t understand them,” he murmured. “Someday she won’t listen to her dumb dad tell her that he loves her. I have to tell her now.”

Hermione sniffled and nodded. “Well, for the record… I think Minnie knows how much you love her, Papa.”

He tried on the nickname for size. “Papa, huh? ...that’s so…”

“Cutesy?” Hermione cringed.

“No… it’s _warm_. I like it.” He smiled. “Much better than ‘father’ which always made me feel like I had something to confess to my own dear dad.”

“Good,” she said. “Come on, Papa. I have a glass of scotch with your name on it in the kitchen.” She took his hands and led him back to the heart of their little cottage, where indeed, Draco had never, ever felt cold.


	20. Day 20 - Conflict of Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius Malfoy is sentenced to death, which means that Draco's nightmare is finally over and he can go back to his old life. But what's normal without her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 20 prompt - "To whom do I owe the biggest apology? No one's been crueler than I've been to me." - Alanis Morissette

His testimony lasted for nearly an hour. He spoke clearly, and his words echoed up in the high-gabled ceiling of the courtroom. Most barristers make closing remarks on behalf of their clients, but no amount of flowery legal language could say what Draco felt in his heart. His statement wrapped up thusly:

> _ When I was nine years old, my father became pledged to a man we have come to know as Voldemort—but their acquaintance stretched back much further. My father has been embroiled with the deeds of Tom Riddle since he framed Rubeus Hagrid. My mother was not aware of my father’s involvement back in those days, but it has come to light in this court that he has been an orchestrator of dark acts for almost four decades, at the behest of his master. _
> 
> _ One of those acts was fathering a son. _
> 
> _ I am the sole heir to the Malfoy line, which was built on the backs of muggle-born witches and wizards. My inheritance was written in blood. My father used my mother to secure the legacy of his bigotry, and used me to attack the children of people who opposed him. I have been a tool of his abuse, and a victim of it. But I am not without guilt. _
> 
> _ I took the dark mark when I was old enough to know better. I was brainwashed, you can be sure, but I knew what it meant to bear the skull and serpent tattoo, and I will have to bear it until my body is one day cremated, as punishment for my actions. _
> 
> _ I have killed no one. I have harmed many. I owe countless apologies to my peers. There is one person to whom I have done the most harm, and to whom this legacy of poison can never be explained or atoned for. Myself. _
> 
> _ I have kept myself from knowing love. From developing friendships with people who would have cared for me. From pursuing an education which might have liberated me from my father’s influence. I have kept myself from my mother’s bedside as she lay dying, and kept myself from grieving her after she passed. All this because my father made me believe I could not give or receive affection without violence. The one thing I cannot do is sit by and allow my father, Lucius Malfoy, to continue existing on this planet. _
> 
> _ Every meal he is afforded is a meal denied to a wizard he killed. While I believe I do not have it in me to take the life of anyone unless they threatened someone I love… I do not have a family to protect. Nobody loves me. So, I have to protect my legacy and my family name and prevent my bloodline from ever continuing. I will not father children. The Malfoy line ends with me. A fish rots from the head. He, my father, is the head. His death will bring peace to several generations of wizards, just as Voldemort’s death brought peace to mine. _
> 
> _ I request he be killed swiftly, and his death not be prolonged by last meals or any bounty of mercy. If he is afforded any rights at all, let him make his confession to a Muggle priest, perhaps the only living soul who could believe there is good in him. _
> 
> _ I can live with the death of my father. It will pain me, what he did to me, until my memory goes. I hope I live long enough to forget him. _
> 
> _ Thank you. _

There was a heady silence in the court as Draco sat down again, but she leaned over and squeezed his knee in reassurance. “You did well,” she whispered. He nodded curtly, patting her hand.

The court did not take long to deliberate and in the end, the sentence was passed.

Lucius Malfoy would hang by the neck until dead.

It was only right that a man who so hated the Muggle world should have a Muggle coward’s death. An old-fashioned death, the kind which was exacted on petty thieves back before prisons existed large enough to hold petty offenders. Except his crimes weren’t petty, and Azkaban was too luxurious for the likes of him.

Draco slumped down in his seat. Lucius Malfoy was taken away in chains by the Azkaban guards, and the crowd filtered out of the room, leaving only Draco, his council, and a handful of court reporters, who he had agreed to speak to after the trial had concluded. He stood behind the defense table and pressed his hands to the wood.

His council held up her hands to quiet the tiny throng. “Mister Malfoy will take one question apiece, so make them count.”

“Mister Malfoy!”

“Go ahead, Jameson,” his companion said.

The man in brilliant yellow robes stood with a notepad and Quick Quotes Quill poised. “The court ruled in your favor. How are you feeling?”

Draco cleared his throat. “Justice has been done, and I believe it will be a relief to many.”

“Why did you give the closing remarks instead of Ms. Granger?” another reporter asked, a woman named Marissa from a small gossip rag.

He glanced at Hermione Granger, who was standing pensively beside him, appearing strong and unbending as she had always done, since the day he came to her asking for help. “Would you like me to answer?” she asked. He shook his head.

“While Ms. Granger has always represented my interests above and beyond the call of duty, I felt it necessary for the court to understand that Lucius Malfoy’s crimes cannot be summarized on paper, nor can they be considered in any way inconsequential to my family’s legacy.” He shrugged. “No one is able to tell my story but Me. Even if they are as eloquent as Ms. Granger.”

Rita Skeeter held up a clawed hand. “Are you open to dating now that your trial is over, Mister Malfoy? And if so, may I tell my readers we have an eligible bachelor on our hands?”

He blushed. “That is one facet of my life to which you shall never be privy, Miss Skeeter.”

“So that’s a yes, then.” She winked and Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Any questions pertaining to the actual trial?” Hermione did roll her eyes, and he was greatly amused.

A man stood, this time wearing becoming tweed robes with a jaunty hat and a mustache to match. “My question is for Ms. Granger: why did you take on this case in particular?”

Draco felt her tense up. “Surely that is something your readers don’t care about,” Draco said.

“On the contrary. I feel my readers will want to know how a member of the golden trio came to represent a former Death Eater.” Giles Gibbons was known for his direct and honest questioning, which always flowed freely from him, as if his extemporaneous thoughts were tightly organized in his head—he was neither disrespectful nor coddling. Which is why Draco suddenly felt quite self-conscious that Hermione might be required to answer such a personal question. She wasn’t the one on trial. She was his council. An incredible barrister, to be sure, but she was not under sentencing. The fact he had bullied her up until third year and been a part of a murderous cult was not a factor in their working relationship… was it?

Hermione sighed. “Mister Gibbons, while I appreciate your frankness and fluidity, which is indeed an admirable quality in a fountain pen, I don’t believe it is my responsibility to answer why I, an experienced barrister and woman of integrity, would take on a worthy case. You may think you understand what those words mean—former Death-Eater. Golden Trio.—you did not live through the origins of them. For me to try to explain to you why Draco Malfoy is worthy of defending... He had a case, he came to me, I said yes. That’s all you need to know.”

Draco tried to pry his jaw off the floor. Yes, he was grateful to her for all she had done to help him, but he had figured she had done it out of some misplaced sense of duty… and not because she really believed his case worthy of defending. His heart leapt.

“That’s all the questions we’ll take for now.” Hermione took the blank look on Draco’s face to mean that any further questioning would prove fruitless. “If you have other questions you’d like for Mister Malfoy to speak to, you may send them to my office. Thank you.”

She gripped his elbow and tugged him away from the reporters, who murmured lowly amongst themselves. Draco strode to keep up with her but even in her stilettos, she wildly out-paced him. She stepped into the lifts well ahead of him and Draco had to dive through the doors to make it inside. Once they reached the main floor of the Ministry, she kept up the grueling pace until they were outside in the smoggy London air, and he could finally grab her elbow, yanking her out of the crosswalk and the path of a shiny black cab. She collided with his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m a bit touchy.”

He released her, and she brushed her hands down the front of her robes. “Well.” He breathed out. “That’s over. I’m… relieved.”

“Good,” she peeped. She didn’t look at him, choosing instead to sit on the steps of a small monument to some inconsequential Muggle royal, which was a few blocks away from the secret entrance to the Ministry.

“Are you… alright?” Draco stood at the base of the steps.

Hermione curled up her fingers into her palms. “We… won. We won. And still Gibbons insinuates defending you makes me some kind of saint! As if—UGH! As if you’re less of a person, and nothing your father did matters because… I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I’m so mad. What a piece of shit.” She clearly wanted to scream or something. Draco reached for her shoulder before he could stop himself. He grasped it and squeezed. When she looked up at him, her eyes were shining with frustrated tears.

“Please don’t cry,” he said softly, sitting beside her. “I cannot bear it. I… do think you’re a saint. For taking my case on, for helping me write my remarks and gathering so much evidence against my father.” He laughed. “Hell, if it weren’t for you, we never would’ve found three-quarters of our witnesses. You’ve got dogged determination, and I could not have done any of this without you.” His hand slid down her arm to her elbow. “You’ve spent the last six months of dinners discussing this case over Chinese food and formatting theories—I’m sure you’re long past ready to have normal cases again.”

She leaned into his touch. “I’m not, Draco. I’m not ready.” Hermione took his hand. “This case has been everything to me.”

“I understand.” But he didn’t, really. Not in the same way. 

She nudged him with her shoulder. “Fuck what Jameson asked. What are you really feeling?”

Draco looked away. 

Well?

He felt... like he had a weight pulling from his sternum which would eventually cause him to hunch like an old man long before his body truly gave out on him.

Like everything he had worked for was finished, and so… now what?

Like his mother would be proud of him, and missing her so much that the thought of her sprung tears in his eyes--if only she could be there with him.

He felt feverish.

He felt sad.

He felt high on accomplishment.

He felt hungry.

He felt hot and desperate to be touched and  _ fuck _ if he wasn’t ready to unbutton his collar and breathe again.

“Too much to properly articulate.” He touched his top button but did not undo it.

She nodded once. “May I say something, not as your barrister… but--” she stopped. She looked up at him. He raised an eyebrow, but she took that as permission to continue. “I can’t listen to you talk anymore about having nobody. I can’t listen to it because I’ve spent the last six months--what is that? A hundred and… eighty days, or so?--caring very much about what you need.” She grazed his cheek. “I’ve represented some real gems, which happens when you start out as a public defender, and I am proud of the work that I did. But I failed you, because… it is not your best interest I have had in mind. It’s mine.

“Draco… do you not see how much you matter? To me? Don’t you feel it? If you don’t, it’s fine, I can live with that, but… you can’t spend the rest of your life believing nobody cares about you or what happens to you.” She searched his eyes, but he was too stunned to react. All he could do was stare at her. Hermione touched his cheek again and smiled sadly. “Alright. Well. Now you know, and… I should go. I don’t remember what it’s like to have a night off,” she said with a light laugh, tinged in sadness. They had truly spent nearly every single evening together working on his case… He had come to depend on the doorbell ringing at four pm, which signified she was waiting with takeout in one hand and an armful of files. She always had a determined smile on her face. She always forced him to peruse her latest finding before cracking open the reusable container with his food inside, and they marked the end of every evening with a glass of scotch. The next morning, her owl would appear with a scroll summarizing what they had discussed the night prior, and a promise she was looking into this thing or that, and she’d show him her findings that night--and did he want Chinese again, or would Indian do? The realization settled in him, and Draco did unbutton the collar of his shirt, then. He was sweating.

She was the part of his day he looked forward to the most. He would wait on a knife’s point for four o’clock to roll around, snapping at his assistant when she disturbed his anxious reverie, and the  _ moment _ Hermione stepped inside his apartment, he would let out a breath that had been choking him all day long. He set his watch by her.

He dreamed about her.

He noticed when her hair was different, when she picked a new lipstick. He noticed when she shifted on her heels because her feet were aching because she had been standing beside him all day at the preliminary hearings. Everything about her was attuned in his mind.

“I think I love you,” he realized out loud, before the thought could bounce around in his brain long enough to decide if it was right to say. He stood abruptly and held out a hand to her. Her hand was shaking, but she took it, and Draco pulled her up. He walked down one step so she was eye-to-eye with him. “No… I know it. For certain.”

Hermione smiled softly. She touched the skin at his throat where his button used to sit, tracing the circular indent there. His Adam’s apple jumped. “You don’t have to say that.” She sounded desperately sad. 

“I do. I can’t hide things from you, and I don’t want you to represent me anymore.”

Her eyes were teary again--why was she so sad? “Why not?” she sniffed.

“Conflict of interest.” He leaned down and kissed her. “I love you, Hermione.”

As the realization passed over her face that he was being honest, that he felt the weight of her words, she smiled brightly, and the tears streaming down her cheeks became happy ones. He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, and hugged her off her feet. She laughed as her shoes fell to the ground with a clatter, and he spun her around. When he set her on her feet again, she barely came up to his chest, so he bent down to kiss her again, which was all he really wanted to do.

“Why are you so short?” he teased. She wrinkled her nose.

“That’s rich coming from a behemoth.” She put her arms around his neck and linked her fingers. “Say it again?”

Draco straightened, forcing her to stand on her tip-toes  _ on his shoes _ . He brushed her hair off her face, which he had dislodged in the spin of his declaration. “I lied to the court, but I did so unconsciously. There is one person for whom I would kill, and who I know, without her having to say it, because her actions have proven it--loves me. And it’s you. Please don’t leave me tonight, or any night hereafter.”

Hermione nodded. She inclined her head to kiss him, and smiled wryly. “So. What should we get for dinner?”

“Ms. Granger, for once, let me feed  _ you.” _

It was a lot, he had to admit, to contend with in one day. There was a heaviness in him, for the finality of his father’s life and the end of the trial, but one thing would remain constant in his life. It was more than he could ever have hoped for.

_ Her _ .

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think--and if you have any prompt ideas for me! I'll add them into my rotation. :)


End file.
